


Healing Old Scars with Feijoa Vodka

by ChameleonSerket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:15:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8354755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChameleonSerket/pseuds/ChameleonSerket
Summary: “I’m going to have to guess, aren’t I? No, don’t say anything, I’m going to guess. Right then. You don’t want to tell me so… it must be someone I know. Is it Greg?”“Who’s Greg?” Sherlock spat from the couch.Aka: Sherlock and John get trolleyed and talk about their feelings.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I found this ancient feelings fic in one of my little- used folders! It's really old, I wrote 99% of it in 2012 (during The Great Sherlock Hiatus) and then immediately forgot about it. But now its polished and finished and here for your viewing pleasure! 
> 
> Because it's so old it doesn't fit with canon but honestly like when has canon ever stopped a really dedicated fic writer before.

The flat had been silent for days. Dust had settled calmly on the furniture and the kitchen smelt of unwashed dishes and old Chinese food. It was peaceful. Quiet.  In bad need of a hoover.

It was not silent for much longer. Muffled voices, one jubilant, one calm, drifted up the stairs and before long there was a key rattling in the old lock before the hinges of the door creaked open to admit its occupants inside once more. John, grinning, practically bowed Sherlock through the door earning himself a raised eyebrow and a barely disguised smile from his usually haughty flatmate.

“John, honestly, there is no need for you to act this way” Sherlock sniffed as he dusted off his chair. “After all, I was just doing my job.”

“Please, mate, I’ve been working with you for years and I’ve never seen you take on a case that hard before. And you solved it!  Brilliantly! This calls for a celebration Sherlock, and no arguing this time.”

“I know what your type of celebration is John, and it involves copious amounts of alcohol and lots of bad decisions. Besides, we just got home and I don’t want to leave again.”

John’s head appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. “Who said we’re going out? We have copious amounts of alcohol right here, remember? I don’t want to go to the pub tonight either. A quiet night in, that’s what I want. You must be losing your touch! Or maybe all your mental abilities have been exhausted.” He sniggered and disappeared back around the door frame.

“Of course, I must be tired.”

“You’ve just stretched yourself, is all.” There was a faint clinking sound. “Now, what do you want? We have beer, red wine, white wine, something cloudy in a plain bottle…”

“Don’t touch that, it’s toxic.”

“Right, okay. Oh! We also have vodka! Molly’s very special Christmas present just for you, remember?”

“Of course I remember, your sister tried to sneak it out of the cupboard and you made me hide it in my room.”

“Yeah, shame we were having a dry Christmas, I think Molly wanted to get you totally hammered on this… what is it? Feijoa favoured vodka?”

“Hm. A shame indeed.”

There was a barely audible gulping sound from the kitchen, and John’s voice drifted out, “Yeah so it’s actually really nice. You want some?”

“Oh, why not, this is a ‘celebration’ after all.”

 

The flat had been silent for approximately two minutes. Sherlock and John had settled drunkenly on the furniture- Sherlock lying down on the couch; John sitting on the rug- and the whole apartment smelt of feijoa flavoured vodka. It was peaceful. Quiet. In very bad need of a hoover.

“John.”

“Mm.”

“I need to tell you something.”

“Mm?”

“John I have never been this drunk.”

John made a noise that was equal parts mumble, chuckle, and moan.

“Nnnyou can’t laugh at me because I’ve seen you worse than this.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you Sherlock I was just…” John groped tipsily for suitable words. “I was just surprised you’ve been drunk before. Is all.”

“I’ve done a lot of things you wouldn’t suspect of me, I think.”

“Oh.”

Silence. The evening had been full of these short silences in between lengths of incessant chatter. Sherlock had talked at length of the stupidity of serial killers, and how he’d do a far better job if he ever turned his hand to darker deeds. John was worried until he forgot. John, in turn, had talked expansively of gunfire and the screams of battle and oh god how much he _missed it._ Sherlock was worried and filed that particular sliver of information away for sober perusal later on. Three days later there was an argument and as it turned out, John hadn’t quite forgotten about the serial killer speech and was therefore far better armed for retaliation than Sherlock had anticipated. Mrs Hudson ended up calling Lestrade for backup.

However, back in the incredibly inebriated present, the silence was getting ready to end, as John had collected his current thoughts enough to ask a question.

“What things?”

“Many things” said Sherlock vaguely.

“Ooh, a mystery then. A case, just for John! The Mystery of What Has Sherlock Done in his Youth.” John scooted across the rug until he could lean against the sofa.

“You make up many terribly trite titles for cases but that one is the worst by far.”

“I’m working on it. Okay. Have you ever smoked weed?”

“As recently as last week John you know this.”

“Oh wow I’m hammered. Hmm, okay. Have you ever been in love?”

“I’m a sociopath John.” Sherlock steepled his fingers over his face and closed his eyes.

“No you’re not Sherlock and anyway that has nothing to do with my question. You’re being evasive.”

“Okay then I have. Three times in fact.”

“Sherlock you sly old dog! I never would have guessed. Who were the lucky ladies, tell me about them?”

“They weren’t.”

“What, lucky? Come on Sherlock, you’re clever, you’re funny, you’re devastatingly handsome. I mean who wouldn’t be lucky if they snagged a man like that?”

“No, I meant. Ladies, John. They weren’t ladies.”

An electric shock of silence. Sherlock winced.

 

After a while John started to chuckle. “Oh, wow, poor Molly. She has been barking up the wrong tree, hasn’t she?”

“The wrong forest, more like.”

“No, no it’s more like… it’s more like you’re both in the same forest but instead of barking up trees, she’s barking at you instead.”

“So I’m barking up the same trees Molly should be…?”

“Yeah, no wait. I think we’ve lost track of the metaphor.”

“No you could be right there actually. None of them have reciprocated. I seem to be barking up the wrong trees as well.”

“Tell me about them, then.”

“What, the trees?”

“No, Sherlock, the men!”

Sherlock huffed. “Get me another drink and I may.”

“Alright.” John unfolded himself upwards, bit by bit, until he was more or less standing, and with the encouragement and support of more than one piece of helpful furniture, tottered over to the table. They had started the night with mixers but quickly moved onto shots, proceeded by more shots and then, after a small break for water and old Chinese food, shots again. As a result of this, they had approximately a quarter of the bottle left. John eyed it warily. This hangover was going to be an absolute stinker. Oh well. He poured out two more shots and made his way unsteadily back to the couch where his friend was waiting with closed eyes and an outstretched hand- which John put one of the shots into. Sherlock knocked back the shot without even looking and John quickly followed suit before collapsing back down to lean against the couch.

“Okay, time for Sherlock to tell me stories!”

Sherlock sighed. “Must I?”

“Yes, you must. You know nearly everything about me and even after seven years, I know next to nothing about you. Quite frankly I don’t think that’s fair, do you?”

“You’re not supposed to know about me; I’m enigmatic. On purpose, I might add.”

“You’re bloody annoying is what you are” sulked John.

Sherlock exhaled. “I see. Okay. I’m not sure where to start, to be honest.”

“You can… start at the very beginning” mumbled John with a grin, “it’s a very good place to start.”

“That’s a quote, isn’t it. You know I never understand them, I don’t know why you bother.”

“It’s fun. It doesn’t matter. Stop stalling and get on with it Sherlock.”

“Alright.” Sherlock pursed his lips. “The first time I felt something other than familial affection or friendship for another person was when I was fourteen. His name was Michael and he had been my best friend for seven years but one day it just… happened. We were at school- lunchtime- and I saw a girl with her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder and his arm circled around her waist and I thought… I wanted to be like that. With Michael. So I told him the next day.”

“What happened?”

“He called me a poof and said he never wanted to speak to me again. And he didn’t.”

“Shit, Sherlock.”

“I got over it, in time.”

“Did you have better luck with the other ones? Who was the second?”

“Phillip, from university, when I was 21. We were both post- grads and had known each other since we first started our pre- grad programmes four years prior. But no. It’s a shame really. He was incredibly bright, knew exactly when to talk and when to not, and was also interested in men. More specifically, one man. His partner. Our friendship drifted apart ages ago though.”

“And the third?”

“Is a secret.”

“What? No, Sherlock you have to tell now!”

“No, John, no more talking.” Sherlock’s eyelids sagged and his hand waved limply in John’s general direction. “Shhh, it’s time to… it’s time to sleep, I think.”

“Are you, no, are you kidding me? Sherlock, what is it about the third guy? Why won’t you tell me?”

Silence reigned from the couch, and John sighed heavily. “I’m going to have to guess, aren’t I? No, don’t say anything, I’m going to guess. Right then. You don’t want to tell me so… it must be someone I know. Is it Greg?”

“Who’s _Greg_?” Sherlock spat from the couch.

“Lestrade, you bloody stupid… head.”

“John, I told you I didn’t want to talk anymore. That insult was awful, as are you.”

John grinned sleepily and shuffled further along the sofa. He placed his elbows on the couch and his chin in his hands and Sherlock’s sneer did nothing but make him smile wider and bat his eyelashes.

“How about Anderson?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Sherlock! It’s not Moriarty, is it? He… awful man. No, Sherlock you couldn’t’ve. Anyway, he’s… he’s gone. So, there’s no shame in admitting it now!” John said cheerfully as he reached over to pat Sherlock’s cheek. “Well, maybe a little shame.” He reflected, hand stilling on Sherlock’s face. “He killed a _lot_ of people Sherlock. A _lot_.”

Sherlock tried unsuccessfully to open his right eye, found it was blocked by John’s drunken fingers, and slowly peeled them off.

“John. Moriarty was a terrible, terrible person. I… look at my face. Look at how serious I am being. No. No.” His grave voice was ruined slightly by the drunken droop of his eyes and mouth, but John still pulled back bodily and clutched his hands close.

“I’m sorry. That was a bad joke. But, the only other man we both know well enough is Mike. And Mike’s married. Unless, that’s why you…”John trailed off. “No, but he’s not Mike, is he?”

“No.”

“I’m going to keep guessing until I get it right, you know. The pool of eligible bachelors is getting pretty shallow! How about-”

“John.”

“What.”

“Please. Please stop. Nothing will be gained by you finding the result. I can’t… it will just make everything worse. He’s straight. He hates me, deep down, I’m sure. I deceived him. And now, even after you say that you’ve forgiven me, I’m still alone and I’ll always be alone so just let it lie, John. I’m done.”

“Wait a minute. You said…”

“John, don’t.”

“No, shut up, I’m too drunk, I need to think.” John pitched back from the couch and leant against the coffee table, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Silence covered the flat like a thick fog. Sherlock imagined he could almost feel it creeping into his mouth and pouring down his throat to strangle his words and choke him out. Of course this was impossible, the part of his brain that he could never quite turn off sneered, but the vodka quickly, thankfully, subdued that little voice and left him to his fantasies. Sherlock rather liked the vodka.

John rather hated the vodka. It pressed heavy behind his eyes and rang in his ears and seemed intent on not allowing him to hold a cohesive thought for more than half a sentence. Words swam slowly through the feijoa- tinted haze:

                                                                                                                                                                      /wait a minute/                   

                                                                 /no/ _(yes yes yes)_

/he didn’t/ _(he did)_

_(tell him)_

                                                                                                                                                /but/

                                                                                                                                                                                                                               /he can’t mean/ _(oh but he can)_

                                                                     /he doesn’t mean/ _(you need to tell him)_

/it can’t be it just can’t/                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 /...me?/

_(TELL HIM NOW)_

John sat bolt upright with a jerk. “I’m not straight Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled a drunken eye over to John. “What?”

“I’m not straight. I thought you knew.”

“Of course you are,” Sherlock scoffed. “All your mannerisms, all your... all your girlfriends John! You’re not _gay.”_

“Yeah but I’m not straight. There are more things in heaven and earth...” John waved his hands around “...etcetera, whatever. I never told you because you’re mister deduction.”

“Seems like I have a blind spot.” Sherlock sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. The nagging voice was back _(idiot, idiot)_ and even vodka couldn’t completely stop it berating him. Fortunately John was there, like always, like a soothing rain, like a salve, always ready as a distraction before Sherlock could be overwhelmed by himself.

“I never did tell you about Rafe, did I?” said John, right on cue.

“Rafe?”

“Raphael Gomani. He was… well, he was tall, dark, ravishingly attractive,”

“Ah, like me then” Sherlock teased. This was good. He couldn’t judge himself when he was this drunk _and_ concentrating on a conversation.

“No, hush, anyway, you were devastatingly handsome. That’s an entirely different scale. You broke my train of thought, where was I?”

“Raphael.”

“Yes, Rafe. He was in my unit. The gentlest man you’d ever meet until he came under fire. Then he never missed a shot. Never lost his head, either. I learnt a lot from him.” John contemplated his fingernails for a moment. “He was… very popular with the women in our unit but he never treated them with anything but the utmost respect. We used to tease him about it in the mess hall. ‘Hey Rafe, who’s tried to get into your pants this week?’ ‘Rafe, how many girlfriends do you have now? Was it eight or nine?’ and he always just laughed and smiled and shook his head.” John sighed. “I never even suspected he was gay until he pulled me into a dark corner one night and kissed me.”

“That was a bold move.”

“He was mortified, to tell you the truth. I had to enlist the whole of our unit to convince him it wasn’t a mistake. And even then it took two weeks. After that, well…”

“You were with him a while.”

“A long while. Five years. We made sure we were deployed to the same SAS task force and everything.  John tilted his head back to look upside- down at Sherlock. “He meant the world to me. I was ready to grow old with him. We made plans. Go to Spain, get married. Buy a little villa. Live in the sun.”

“What happened?”

“Our platoon was ambushed while on a routine mission. He was… he was shot. I might have been able to save him, but…” John’s hand drifted towards his old scar wound.  “I woke up in a hospital three weeks later and was relieved of service.”

“John, I’m…”

“It’s okay Sherlock,” John slurred “it is. You know, I’ve never told anyone about that.”

“Not even your therapist? I knew she was no good.”

“Yes, once more your incredible deduction skills have proven themselves useful.”

Sherlock drummed his heels on the arm of the couch. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Really, Sherlock? You really have to ask me this?” John turned to face Sherlock, who stared drunkenly at him from the sofa. “Can’t you use your brilliant powers of deduction?”

“I have consumed the better part of a bottle of vodka with you and am in no shape to be making deductions” said Sherlock, valiantly managing a haughty sniff. “If you like, we could continue this conversation in the morning.”

“You aren’t going to let this go, are you?” Shot back John with a frown, although he was too sloshed to be truly angry. “Fine. If you must know, I was going to tell you. I was planning to. And then you went and jumped of that fffffucking building and… I thought I had lost both of you. The two men I had cared about more than life itself and I couldn’t save either of them. I’m a doctor Sherlock, do you know what that means? It means I don’t let people die, and Raphael died! You died! Worse than that, you let me think you had killed yourself! And I nearly… I nearly gave up Sherlock. I nearly gave up on everything.”

“I’m back now.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not planning to leave again.”

Silence. Sherlock studied the ceiling. John stared at the couch fabric.

A few false starts later Sherlock muttered something that sounded an awful lot like an apology, laced with an unapologetic explanation.

“I _know_ why you did it Sherlock, I just don’t want to.”

Silence again, but it wasn’t tense. Just patient. John was resting his head on the couch now and Sherlock had to force his fingers away from that mop of tousled hair.

“I’m… Sherlock. I can’t do this now. I’m so fucked up and I need to go to bed.”

Sherlock gurned down from the couch “Whose bed?” and was immediately rewarded with a drunken hand sloshed into into his face.

“Listen to me. Just, listen. I’m too drunk. We’re too drunk” John sighed. “But I don’t want to… you know. Not talk. We’ve done enough not talking. I’m tired of not talking.”

John sunk into a furrowed pause and slowly rocked his face over to look at Sherlock.

“I need to not be most of the way through a bottle of bloody feijoa vodka when I have this conversation with you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“John. I agree. We need to talk. Tomorrow. Or maybe… the day after. I don’t think either of us is going to be in a talking mood tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Do you promise?”

“I can even pinky promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that!” It took a couple of tries, but eventually John hooked Sherlock’s pinky in his. “Okay, now you can pinky promise.”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “I pinky promise to not not talk anymore.”

“Good. alright, now I need to… bed. Do you need help?”

“No. I’m going to stay on the couch, I think. It’s very comfortable. Why is this couch so comfortable, John?"

“It’s because you’re really drunk, Sherlock.”

“Ah.”

John tottered upwards in increments, using every ounce of his military training to order himself to his feet. He dropped a clumsy hand into Sherlock’s hair and smiled as Sherlock, half asleep already, nudged deeper into his palm. A warmth shot through his veins- affection, perhaps, or just the vodka. John would know tomorrow. Or the next day. But at least he would know, and after all this time, he was finally content. Maybe tonight was the night he would stop dreaming of St Bart's.

 

The flat was no longer silent. It had life again, albeit in the form of John bouncing off the walls in his attempts to find his door, and Sherlock happily snoring on the couch. It was still peaceful, if not entirely quiet.  And maybe once the hangovers had worn off someone would eventually hoover.


End file.
